


A Golden Rose and it’s Thief

by gaytriangle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassin AU, F/F, Fake Character Death, Fluff, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Littlefinger Sansa, this is how we’re doing things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 16:51:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/gaytriangle
Summary: “Are you ready, m’lady?”, the assassin whispered.“Whenever the hell you are,” she hissed back.Then the dagger split her throat.





	A Golden Rose and it’s Thief

“Are you ready, m’lady?”, the assassin whispered.  
“Whenever the hell you are,” she hissed back. 

Then the dagger split her throat.  
~  
The golden rose was already entertwined with the kings lion when Sansa Stark was born, to a poor, proud lady in waiting and the worst liar in kings landing. 

The golden rose was a second crest of the kingdom by the time Sansa Snow, surrogate mother to three and mothered by two, was old enough to slip into the position herself. In another lifetime, she could have been soft as castle silk. In this one, she was as much castle forged steal as the blunted dagger she carried in her pockets, or the sharp one she kept neatly in her laces. 

When she had lost Robb, she learned to listen for the whispers, to never make a promise she couldn’t keep. When she lost Bran, it was to take nothing for granted but the weight of her blade in her hand. When sweet little Rickon, as much her baby as her brother, had been taken from her, she learned to take it back. She and Arya had been petty thieves for years, pushing and pulling their way through closed purse strings and open hearts alike like a pair of wolves, always in sync. When Jon was drafted into that damn kings watch, Sansa set her sights on stealing the golden rose: Margaery Tyrell. 

The plan had been to take up her mothers position, just to the left of the queen, and earn a pretty ransom when the empty bird inevitably left a weak spot in her defences. The plan had never been to slit her palm cutting a loaf in the queens little suite, or for the rose to deign to bandage Sansa’s hand herself. It was a rookie mistake. Sansa never should have let herself bleed in this castle. Yet Margaery’s smiles had always seemed to have a touch of melancholy that resonated, somewhere inside the stone carving of Sansa’s heart. 

As she and Arya continued their pickpocketing by early dawn and late dusk, almost matching heart beat to heart beat, Sansa began to crave those little touches of Margaery that lit up her days. She began to notice the gold in the roses brown eyes, most visible when she laughed. Margaery had the most pretty laugh. She saw their gold in every jewel she slipped into one hidden pocket or the other, and her brown curls in the soft leather carvings on her dagger. Autumn and winter both came and went, and before long the summer had dawned. It was then Sansa noticed something else too. She noticed bruises. 

King Joffrey, first of his name, was a vicious king. Sansa’s own family had found that out the hard way. Rumours swirled that he had killed his first wife, who hadn’t been seen at all in the months before Margaery became his queen. Yet watching the two of them together was like watching two wild swans scuffle: as much as they fought, they were still a pair. Or not, apparently, because as Sansa stitched up Margaery’s sleeve she caught a glimpse of deep purple underneath. Margaery flushed, when she saw what the redhead had seen. 

“Our gracious and noble king sees fit to give me many gifts, Lady Sansa. Some are less desirable than others, though I accept them all,” she murmured, in a voice that was meant to sound regal yet came off as exhausted. 

“Is there no way to refuse, my lady?” Sansa tilted her head, flattening her hand against her own skirt and revealing the faint silhouette of her blunted dagger. Margaery pursed her lips. 

“And what do you have in mind?”

~

A promise was made in whispers and kept in fleeting glances. It took them more than a year to make the preparations. During that time, Arya had been moved to a kitchen porter under the pretence of being Sansa’s husband. Arya was used to the ruse of switching genders, though less so to the manners needed to survive the keep. Of the three of them, only Sansa maintained the courtly graces the majority of her time. Even Margaery, golden though she was, preferred to stick her feet in the earth and hawk or hunt. Still, as the third autumn of Sansa’s time in the keep bloomed crisp and clear, with a little cottage deep in the Reach stowed away, they acted. 

The tired queen feigned illness to be removed from Joffrey’s reach that morning. The grin she threw Sansa was caught by no one, though the glitter in her eyes was noticed by a new guard, who made no remark of it. At noon, Arya was ‘caught’ stealing from the kitchens, and made a huge scene before fleeing into the hidden tunnels of the castle. As the clocks rang two, then, all was perfect for things to go to hell. 

Margaery’s blood curdling scream was perfect, summoning the guarding Hound as well as Ser Jaime the Kingslayer and several members of the Guard, yet not the King himself. When they entered, they found Sansa and Margaery in riding clothes, with Sansa’s precious dagger against Margaery’s precious neck. 

“Nobody moves!”, Sansa yelled, and the onlookers froze. The lean, pale member of the guard from before leaned back against the wall to remove himself the fray, while Ser Jaime kept his palm on his pommel and his feet half ready to leap at the two women. Margaery tried to nod encouragement, but hissed- a red line was visible where her head had moved. Sansa’s voice was, onlookers would recount later, eerily steady. “I fancy myself some of my bride wealth. Ser Jaime, slide your sword to me or I slide my dagger across her neck.” 

Ser Jaime gave a token protest at releasing his Valyrian Steel, but knew he was in no place to argue. The sword had belonged to Sansa’s father, and Robb after him, and it should have been Sansa’s dowry after his death. The soft movement of footsteps was hidden in the moaning of one of the other ladies in waiting, distraught at the betrayal. 

“I want every inch of the Stark and Tully fortunes at my feet before she is released, do you hear me? You will rue what you did to my family, every day for the rest-“ 

At that moment, the golden king made his entrance. “Hound! Uncle! Where are you? My pretty little wife has not deigned to make herself available. I say the bitch-“ Yet he would say no more, because Sansa had whispered in Margaery’s ear the moment before he walked in. 

“Are you ready, m’lady?”  
“Whenever the hell you are.”

Then Sansa’s dagger carved through Margaery’s throat.

~

Pandemonium erupted. In that moment, the wall behind the pair opened. Two figures waited to pull the assassin and her queen behind them, and the wall had reshut before even Joffreys howl of rage could reach the gloom within. Between the smug grins of her surviving family, Sansa found herself being dipped by Margaery as she had jealously watched Margaery being dipped by Lords and Kings alike for so long. Their passionate kiss would be followed by many more to come-

but that is a story for another time.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping
> 
> Kudos and Comments are appreciated!


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